


Downton Court Hotel

by Ariel_Tempest



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Art Discussion, Bored Children, Cake, Clash of the Titans (1981) references, Cranky Adults, Crossover Cameos - Freeform, Drama, Flirting, Gosford Park Cameos, Humor, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Just Getting It Out Of My Head, Maggie Smith References, Multi, No idea where this is going, Real Person References, Receptions, Thomas in a Dress, Traditions, Weddings, art critique, character resurrection, jackson pollock, perpetual WIP
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2019-04-30
Packaged: 2019-05-27 15:56:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15028088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ariel_Tempest/pseuds/Ariel_Tempest
Summary: The chronicles of the staff at the small (but surprisingly posh) Downton Court Hotel, Yorkshire, England.





	1. Bridesmaids and Bribery

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly debated whether or not to put this here. It's an AU I created for when I get the (very rare) urge to dabble around with the characters in modern day. It's set in a hotel, which I know nothing about. I work on it infrequently. I have no idea how long it will be, where it is going, or anything like that. Also playing kinda fast and loose with character ages, because we aren't given a lot of them. Just kinda going with whatever seems to fit.
> 
> I am mainly putting it here for posterity, but if people like it, I may put more of an effort in.

"I will not." Thomas Barrow looked at the two women in front of him as if they'd just suggested he go strutting down main street starkers. 

"Oh come on, Thomas," Anna wheedled. "It's not for the wedding, just the bachlorette party."

Thomas returned his attention to the guest roster in front of him. "I still don't know why I should be worrying about a bachlorette party. I'm hardly a girl."

"But you're going to be standing on the bride's side of things," Gwen countered. "That means you have to come to the bachlorette party."

"And you never have any fun."

"Having fun's not healthy for you," Thomas muttered, avoiding either of their eyes. 

"That's not true!" Anna scoffed.

Exasperated beyond measure, Thomas looked back up at her. "Alright, having fun's not healthy for me, how's that? We all know what happens when I have 'fun'." The last time anyone at the small-but-surprisingly-posh Downton Court hotel had seen the night manager have fun it had been a Christmas party several years prior. It had ended with him kissing one of the bell boys and nearly being both sacked and sued for sexual harassment. Despite the fact that he and Jimmy had eventually made it back on speaking terms, it was still what one might call a sore point.

"Jimmy's not going to be there," Anna reminded him. "And hopefully O'Brien's been eaten by a tiger by now."

Thomas leveled his best reprimanding glare at her. "Anna Bates!"

"Alright, alright, I'm sorry. I shouldn't wish that on the poor tiger."

"Damn right you shouldn't," Thomas replied, completely ignoring the fact that he, as manager, should use better language.

"But anyway," Anna continued, "It's just going to be you and us girls."

"And Miss Baxter won't let us hire a stripper, so it will be boring if we don't come up with something to spice it up." Gwen added.

Thomas folded his arms over his chest and gave both of the maids his most unimpressed look. "And of course, the perfect way to spice things up is to shove me in a dress. Were you planning on adding a wig and makeup too?" The maids exchanged guilty looks and Thomas slammed a hand down on the desk. "Absolutely not, you'll have to kill me first."

"What if I told Mr. Carson you'd called the Dowager Countess Grantham a bloody old bat the last time the family was through?" Anna threatened.

Thomas's bravado immediately faltered, balanced with a healthy dose of panic. "You wouldn't dare." When she didn't budge, the panic increased, bringing with it irritation. "This whole thing is stupid. You will not get me sacked just because I won't let you humiliate me."

"Sacked?" Gwen rolled her eyes, scoffing and smiling at him. "Mr. Carson wouldn't sack you for that, just give you a good telling off."

"Easy for you to say," Thomas snapped. "I practically had to file a discrimination charge to get a promotion, and that was without the whole mess with Jimmy. He'll sack me over anything he can come up with."

"No he won't, Mrs. Hughes won't let him." Anna reminded him sweetly. Mr. Carson and his wife might share ownership of the hotel on paper, but the whole staff knew that Mrs. Hughes wore the trousers in the relationship. They also knew that Mr. Carson's reluctance to promote the younger man had been due more to his behavior before he'd briefly left the hotel for the military than for his romantic proclivities, but there was no point in arguing the matter. "Although really, if you're so worried about your job, you shouldn't say things like that about the patrons."

"You try dealing with the," Thomas paused briefly, not so much to stop himself from saying what he wanted to, but to let the maids know he wasn't saying it. "Grand old lady."

"I have dealt with her, thank you," Anna replied. "I make up her room, remember? And yes, she can be a bit difficult, but older people can be like that."

Thomas snorted and was going to say something, but the phone rang. He glanced at it and cringed. It had been Mr. Carson's idea to install an in-house line for the hotel's high-end suites, so that their occupants could have access to the staff any time they wished. Thomas hated him for it, especially since, as owner, he was almost never the one to answer. Now the line for suite three was lit up. With a sigh, he scooped up the receiver and, with his sweetest smile in place because Mr. Carson insisted the customers could hear you smiling, said, "Manager's office, this is Mr. Barrow speaking. What can I do for you, Lady Trentham?"

"Yes, do you still offer room service here?" a prim, irritable voice on the other end of the phone asked.

Puzzled, Thomas replied, "Yes, of course, Your Ladyship. Would you like to order something?"

"I have ordered something," he was informed. "I ordered it twenty minutes ago and it's not arrived yet. Am I expected to walk down to the kitchen and collect it myself?"

"Of course not, Your Ladyship," Thomas absolutely purred, trying not to grit his teeth. The old aristocrat might not be able to hear his smile through the phone, but she might hear his incisors chipping. "I'll ring right down to the kitchen and see what the hold up is."

"See that you do." 

Before Thomas could say anything further, the line went dead. He wasn't upset. He immediately switched to the second phone line which connected all of the staff areas and rang down to the kitchen.

There was a click. "Kitchen, Alfred speaking."

Thomas didn't bother smiling. "Alfred, may I ask where Countess Trentham's food is?"

"Nearly ready to go in the oven," the chef replied with an air of confusion. "Why?"

"Nearly ready to go in? She said she ordered it twenty minutes ago."

"Well, yes," Alfred confirmed. With anyone else his tone of voice would have indicated an eye roll, but Thomas doubted he actually had that much spine, even on the phone. "She ordered lobster souffle. It takes about an hour to make, start to finish."

Thomas stared dumbfounded at the phone for a moment, then closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He really wanted to light up a fag about now, but Carson would kill him for smoking in the building, and Mrs. Hughs would not come to his rescue. "Do we have no way of indicating this on the menues?"

"It's printed on the menues, right under the part that says 'lobster souffle'. Why? She's not asking after it, is she?"

"Asking after it?" Thomas gave a bark of humorless laughter. "She's threatening to come down and get it herself."

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the phone. When he spoke again, Alfred sounded as gobsmacked as Thomas felt. "Come and get it? I... how does the woman expect us to make a souffle in twenty minutes? It's a souffle! You can't just freeze it and bake it off at a moment's notice."

"Apparently she thinks she's staying at Hogwarts and the kitchen is staffed with house elves," Thomas sighed. "Never mind, Alfred. Just tell me how much longer and I'll ring up and try to talk sense into the-" This time he really did catch himself, eyed Anna and Gwen, and corrected to "Lady."

"I'd give it another forty five minutes, Mr. Barrow. Maybe fifty."

"Peachy. Thank you." Thomas hung up the phone, then turned his full attention back to Anna and Gwen who were still waiting there. "The answer is still no. Carson can go ahead and sack me, I don't care." If the maids told the older man Thomas's opinion on the Dowager Countess of Grantham, he vowed to stick two cigarettes in his mouth and smoke them simultaneously all of the way out of the building.

Then again, he liked Mrs. Hughes well enough. Maybe he'd just stick to one.

"Come on, Thomas," Anna sighed. "Miss Baxter is your best friend." She stopped and considered that. "Or your oldest friend, at any rate. What's it going to take to convince you to make her party a bit more fun?"

"A full frontal lobotomy."

Anna rolled her eyes.

"I'll buy all of your drinks," Gwen promised. "And dessert, if you like."

"And," Anna offered, crossing her arms over her chest in the manner of someone making their final bargain, "I'll get Mr. Bates to take one of your Saturday shifts so you have both Friday and Saturday free."

That finally got Thomas to stop and consider. Admittedly, he didn't generally have anything to do with two nights off in a row, but at the very least he could safely get hammered and wake up the next morning next to some good looking stranger. Of course, the good looking stranger would then probably thank him for the good time, but explain that he'd just been trying to make his boyfriend jealous, so don't bother calling. Still, half of the staff was always encouraging him, quietly, out of Mr. Carson's ear shot, to please get a boyfriend or at least get laid. "Make it a weekend I have Sunday off and you have a deal."

"Done," Anna smirked. 

"And I want the paperwork for the shift trade put in before the party!"

"It will be," she assured him. "I'll text you when I have a dress and we can work out a time to make it fit properly. You'll look great, I promise!" 

"Get back to work," Thomas glowered, not at all reassured. The two maids vanished dutifully. Thomas sighed, looked at the phone, and promised himself a smoke break after this call. He picked up the phone and hit the button for Countess Trentham's room.

"Yes, hello?"

"Hello, Your Ladyship," Thomas plastered a smile on his face, staring blankly toward the door, thinking longingly of nicotine. "It's Mr. Barrow. I was just calling to update you on the souffle you ordered. You see-"

"About that," she cut him off in a manner that would have been thought unbearably rude if he'd done it to her. "I've decided I don't want it after all."

"You don't?" Thomas wondered how many fags were left in his pack.

"No, I've decided a souffle is too light. I need something more filling. I'll go with the leg of lamb instead."

"Of course, Your Ladyship." A rictor mortis smile on his face, Thomas decided he needed another pack...or maybe three.


	2. They Who Laugh Last

"Do you have any pictures from your first wedding?" Daisy asked, flipping through Phyllis's collection of wedding magazines. Most of them had been foisted off on the bride-to-be by well meaning friends and coworkers. 

"No," Phyllis replied with an admittedly wistful smile. "I sometimes wish I did. My dress was nice and it all looked very grand. I got rid of everything during the divorce, though. I didn't want anything to remind me of Peter."

Daisy raised her eyes and gave the older woman a worried look. "Are you nervous at all? About going through it all again?"

This time there was nothing off about Phyllis's smile. "Not a bit, at least not beyond the usual concerns about the flowers showing up on time and what not. Joseph is completely different than Peter was. I'm looking forward to living with him."

"I wish I had someone like that."

Phyllis couldn't help herself. She laughed. "Daisy, you're not even twenty five! You have plenty of time yet to fall in love and get married."

"I thought you said you were my age when you and Mr. Coyle were married?" Daisy frowned.

"Yes, and look at how that turned out!" the older woman countered. "Meanwhile Anna was thirty four when she married Mr. Bates and I'm over forty now. Really, there's no rush." She paused, then added, "You know, Andrew really is fond of you."

"He's younger than I am," Daisy pulled a face. "It would be cradle robbing."

"He's not that much younger." Anything else Phyllis would have told the younger woman was cut off by the doorbell. That would be the others. She gave Daisy an arch, almost playful look. "Do you want to get it? Thomas promised to dress up."

Daisy turned pink around the ears and buried her face in the magazine again. "I see him in a suit all the time," she muttered.

Phyllis let it go. She had been deeply amused to learn that when Daisy had first started working at Downton Court, she'd had a crush on then-bell-boy Thomas. She tried not to tease either of them about it too often, but sometimes she couldn't help it, particularly when Thomas was being impossible or Daisy was, as Gwen put it, 'trying to Adult'. Crossing to the door, Phyllis pulled it open with a smile. "There you three are. I was wonder-" 

She stopped dead. 

It wasn't that there was someone unexpected at the door. Gwen and Anna stood there, smiling, as planned, with Thomas scowling behind them. The scowling, admittedly, was not planned, but it wasn't surprising either. 

What was surprising – downright shocking, actually – was that he was wearing a dress. It was, admittedly, a classy, black, Mandarin cut dress rather than something pink and ruffled, but it was still a dress. With it went a neat, black, bobbed wig, sort of bronzed-peach lipstick, blush, and heavily smoked eyeliner. He honestly looked like a rather tall, thoroughly irritated woman.

Phyllis wondered how on earth the other two maids had managed to wrangle him into that get up. She suspected it involved demon summoning and had cost one or the other of them their soul.

She heard Daisy stand behind her, probably curious about the sudden break in her speech and the giggling coming from Anna and Gwen, and head for the door. Her footsteps stopped shortly behind Phyllis and there was a strangled squeaking noise.

Thomas's scowl shifted from 'irritated' to 'just let me shove an entire pack of fags in my mouth and light myself on fire already, would you?'. 

"Good to see you all," Phyllis finally managed. "Do come in, won't you?"

"Yes, please," Thomas ground out in reply, all but shoving his way past Anna and Gwen to get into the privacy of Phyllis's flat. As his feet hit the floor, she realized that he'd been put in heels as well. They were comparatively short heels, admittedly, but she still had to wonder where they'd found shoes like that in his size. It probably involved another demon summoning.

Anna and Gwen followed, closing the door behind them. "Are you ready to go to lunch?" Gwen asked, stifling her giggles, but not the cheeky grin plastered across her face. 

"Pictures first!" Anna announced, before anyone could reply. She reached into the bag she was carrying and produced her phone and a tripod. "We have to commemorate the event before Thomas insists on stripping."

"I'm not stripping," the night manager snapped. "Especially not when you made me leave my work clothes in the car."

Anna sighed. "I was teasing, Thomas. Really, would you relax? It's just us here and we're supposed to be having a good time."

"Whatever. Just get your blackmail material and let's get on with this already."

Anna rolled her eyes and started shooing everyone into a group by the sofa. 

Phyllis went as she was directed obediently, but she kept her attention on Thomas. If 'relaxed' had been the maids' goal, she couldn't help thinking they'd misjudged very badly. He might not have been secure in his masculinity, but he was very, very proud of it. As she slid in next to him, coaxing his arm around her shoulder for the sake of fitting in the shot, she muttered, "At least they didn't just grab a tube of red lipstick and a frilly prom dress?"

Thomas glanced at her and while he didn't seem mollified, exactly, the scowl did relax a bit. 

Anna got everyone settled to her liking, got the phone set up, and then came scuttling over to work herself into the shot. "Smile, everyone!" The women all smiled. Thomas's mouth turned up at the corners, but the result wasn't exactly a smile. 

Gwen's eyes were closed. The second time, Daisy sneezed. The third time would have been the charm, except Anna didn't like her expression and insisted on another. The fourth time, Thomas was done smiling, and no amount of cajoling could get him to agree to a fifth time.

"Enough of this," he huffed, arms crossed forebodingly over his chest, the effect only slightly hampered by his uncertainty on how to fold his arms over falsies. "Let's just get to the bar already. The faster I'm hammered, the faster I can forget that I let you talk me into this, and the more time I have to sober up before work."

Phyllis looked up at him in alarm, then dropped her eyes to Anna and Gwen. "Bar? Who said anything about a bar?"

"No one," Anna replied in her most reassuring voice. Somehow, Phyllis wasn't reassured.

"What?" Thomas's voice skipped from 'irritated' to 'livid' in one easy move. "You said-"

"I said I'd buy your drinks," Gwen rolled her eyes at him. "And I will, but we never said we were going to a bar. We're going that fancy new tea house over on fifth."

Daisy's eyes lit up, apparently missing the implication of the mix-up...if it was simply a mix-up. "Oh, the one with the dovecote outside? I've been wanting to go there."

"Well, good news, now you get to," Thomas looked down at her. He was smiling now, but the smile was two steps from murder. Despite the fact he'd removed his arm from around her shoulders, Phyllis could practically feel his muscles tensing. He looked back up at Anna and Gwen. "And I hope you four have a very lovely time, 'cause I am not going."

"Oh really, Thomas," Anna sighed. "You don't need to go like that. Why do you think we had you bring your work clothes?"

It was likely too little, and definitely too late. Thomas's temper was clearly already shot. Not really wanting to watch her bachlorette party go down in flames before it even got started, and really not wanting it to happen without Thomas, Phyllis set a hand on his shoulder, trying to calm him. "Why don't you go into my room? Anna can fetch your proper clothes and you can get changed, have a fag or two, and then we'll head over for tea, hm?"

For a moment, it looked like it wasn't going to work. Then he shook off her hand and, still glaring daggers at Anna and Gwen, he turned and stalked toward the bedroom. As the door slammed shut, Phyllis gave the younger women a rather hard look. "Was that really necessary?"

"We were just trying to make things fun," Gwen protested, gesturing after the now departed man of the group. "It's not a proper bachlorette party if we just dress up and go for tea."

Anna fished her keys out of her purse and headed for the door. "And really, he should learn to take himself a bit less seriously."

Phyllis privately thought there was more chance of that if other people would learn to take him a bit more seriously.


	3. Man of Honour

There was still eyeliner clinging around his lashes. No matter what he tried, Thomas couldn’t seem to get it all. The rest of the makeup had come off well enough with soap and water and he’d finally been convinced the eyeliner was diminished enough to go to tea, but tea was over. The rest of the bridal party, sans bride, had already left for work. Soon he’d have to join them. Eyeliner was just the sort of thing Carson would notice if he showed up with it on, and bachlorette party or no, he would not approve. 

Damn Anna and Gwen for talking him into this. He was going to take his full weekend off and spend the whole time so smashed that the hangover lasted for two days. Assuming, of course, he wasn’t sacked for wearing eyeliner to work. "Phyllis?“ he finally called, trying not to sound panicked. "Is there some trick to getting this crap off?” 

For a moment he wasn’t certain if she’d heard him. Then there were footsteps on the other side of the door and her voice, muffled slightly, saying, “I have some makeup remover in the medicine cabinet. Try that.” 

Dutifully he pulled open the cabinet, but was at a complete loss as to what he was looking at. Phyllis Baxter was not the sort he expected to have a medicine cabinet full of beauty products, and yet there were creams and conditioners of every sort on the shelves. “What does it look like?” 

“May I come in?” 

He wasn’t quite certain why she’d asked. It wasn’t as if he was using the loo, and it was her bathroom, after all. Still, he appreciated the thought. Without a word, he opened the door. He expected her to just come in and fetch the bottle for him, but instead she also got some cotton swabs and had him sit on the closed lid of the loo. 

“Here, let me.” With a somewhat strained smile, she popped open the cap on the little bottle and applied some thick cream to the swab. “Close your eyes.” 

“Thanks,” he muttered, following her instructions. He flinched a little when the swab touched him, simply because he couldn’t see and wasn’t used to things that close to his eyes. 

“You’re welcome,” Phyllis replied. “Although there’s so little left, I don’t know that it’s necessary.” 

Thomas snorted at that. “If I come in wearing anything that might be considered makeup, Carson’ll spot it straight away, I promise you. Then that will be that.” 

“Mr. Carson doesn’t care that much.” Her voice took on the gentle, chiding tone she used when she thought he was being silly, but didn’t want to upset him. 

As usual, it only served to irritate him. “Yes, actually, he does. He’s almost as bad as Dad used to be, only he doesn’t yell as much and…” He didn’t finish the thought. “Anyway, I don’t feel comfortable is all. I think about it and all I can hear is Dad yelling at Margaret for putting me in her Easter dress and Mum’s heels.” 

“Well I think it did a lovely job of bringing out your eyes, but it’s gone now. Hold still a bit more and I’ll make sure there’s no left over remover.” The cotton swab was replaced with a warm, wet washcloth. “There.” 

Thomas opened his eyes, blinking a little as the wet lashes stuck together. He then immediately checked the mirror to be certain that, yes, it was all gone. “Thanks,” he muttered again, then gave her a sideways glance. “I’ll be sure to remember all of that if I ever want to bring out my eyes.” 

“The waiter at lunch seemed to agree with me.” That was said in her teasing voice, the one she used when she wanted to make him smile, but wasn’t certain he was ready to. 

At least eight times out of ten, he wasn’t ready to. This was not one of the lucky times. “The waiter was flirting with at least three different girls,” he retorted with an eye roll. “At best he was bi curious and would figure out after one night that men weren’t his cup of tea. At worst, he just thought I was tipping and hoped he’d get more from flirting.” 

“Thomas!” 

“No, I’ve given up on romance,” he insisted, leaving the bathroom for the comfort of the living room, his hostess trailing behind him. The one good thing about the other bride’s people being maids (well, except for Daisy) was that they’d tidied up the debris from the gifts before they’d left. There was one chair occupied by boxes waiting to go out for pick up, but beyond that, Thomas could sit where he liked. He chose the recliner and, once seated, looked up at Phyllis with his best ‘devil may care’ expression. “It never goes well for me, so I’ll leave it to other people and you can turn your attention to hooking Gwen up with someone.” 

Phyllis gave him one of those worried frowns she wore so often. Really, she fussed more about him than his own sister ever had. “Is this still about Jimmy?” 

“What?” he scoffed. “Of course not. That was years ago and I’m over it. Better a best mate than a failed boyfriend any day.” He paused and gave her a hard look. “And don’t bring up Andy. That was never even a possibility, no matter what everyone else decided, thank you.”

 

“I wasn’t going to mention it.” Phyllis took a seat in the arm chair across from him, her hands folded neatly in her lap. “Really, I didn’t ask you to stay so I could lecture you about your love life, I promise.” 

“Then why did you ask?” 

“I had a question for you.” She straightened and met his eye, smiling. She didn’t say anything further. She didn’t ask anything. The silence stretched long enough that Thomas was about to prompt her when she finally asked, “Would you like more tea?” 

It was not the question Thomas had been anticipating. It was, in fact, so far from that he couldn’t help a short, bewildered laugh. “What, another? I’ve already had six cups.” 

Phyllis’s eyes dropped immediately to her lap. “Right. Of course.” 

“Is something wrong?” Thomas asked, eyebrows drawing slightly together. While he might complain about Phyllis fussing over him more than his real sister, the fact remained that he returned the favor and nothing was calculated to make him set aside his own troubles quite so quickly as signs that she was unhappy. If called out on the fact he would, of course, deny it or make some excuse, but there it was. “You’re not having second thoughts, are you?” 

The question seemed almost startling. “Oh, no!” Phyllis quickly assured him, her face lighting up with a very genuine smile. “No, I am very certain that I want to marry Joseph. It’s only that the wedding is in three days and, well, I’ve not officially named my Maid of Honour.” 

Thomas frowned at that. “I thought that was going to be Anna. Or, well, I suppose she wouldn’t be a maid. Not at a wedding.” 

“No, that would be Matron of Honour, and I think everyone’s assuming it will be her. I haven’t asked her, though. I’ve been thinking about it and…” She paused, then looked him dead in the eye. “I’ve realized what I truly want is a Man of Honour. Thomas, would you please stand next to me at the wedding?” 

Someone else might have asked if she was joking. Thomas knew better. She wouldn’t joke about something like this, not in that earnest manner. She wasn’t the sort. He suddenly wished he’d paid more attention to what actually went into weddings, since the question was clearly an important one, but he had no idea why. “Well,” he mulled the request over, “Would I have to wear a dress?” 

This time it was Phyllis’s turn to be startled into laughter. “No, no, I would never ask that of you. I promise. It’s really no different than any of the other bride’s maids, except you’d stand directly next to me and…” 

“Catch you if you pass out from nerves?” Thomas guessed. It earned him another laugh. 

“I suppose there’s that although really, if I didn’t pass out the first time around, I’m not going to pass out now.” She paused, then shook her head with another smile. “No, the only real concern I had was that the…Person of Honour, I suppose, walks in with the Best Man.” 

That bit of information hit Thomas like a wet towel. “I’d have to walk in arm in arm with Bates?” 

“I wouldn’t insist on arm in arm.” 

“Good,” Thomas huffed, settling back in the chair, his posture leaving no question as to his feelings on this development. “I don’t need him hitting me in the shins with his cane.” 

“Thomas! I am certain Mr. Bates is capable of not accidentally hitting you.” 

“Who said it would be an accident?” Thomas protested. “Really, you all act like he loves me and if I’d just stop being stubborn, we’d be best pals!” 

Phyllis gave him a disapproving look. “You do start things, most of the time.” 

“Most of the time isn’t all of the time.” Under his breath he added, “Although try telling Carson that.” He picked absently at a loose thread. “Are you really certain you want me to do this?” 

The disapproval softened a little. “I trust you and Mr. Bates both to behave. How’s that?” 

“Wasn’t Margaret your Maid of Honour last time? Another Barrow might be inviting bad luck.” He watched her carefully from the corner of his eye. 

With a sigh, Phyllis closed her eyes for moment. “It’s not Margaret’s fault that Peter was a con artist and a thief. It’s not her fault that I didn’t get to know him very well before marrying him.” She opened her eyes again and looked straight at him. “You’re not bad luck, Thomas.”

“Well then,” Thomas shrugged. “I suppose I’ll do it. I just hope you don’t wind up regretting it, is all.” 

Phyllis stood and walked over to press a kiss to the top of his head. “I won’t. No matter what happens, I won’t.”


	4. Art and Aggrivation

“Three days off in a row?” Jimmy gawped, staring at Thomas with an expression somewhere between disbelief and utter jealousy. “Who did you have to murder to get that?”

Thomas tried not to feel smug, but given the look on the other man’s face, it was hard. “Only my dignity,” he admitted. “And all chance of future peace and happiness, but it’ll be worth it.”

From the way Jimmy was eyeing him, Thomas guessed the other man didn’t quite believe him. Still, even for his best friend he wasn’t about to go into detail. He was still paranoid about finding eyeliner Phyllis had somehow missed. “Hardly seems fair,” the blond bellboy grumbled. “You getting this weekend off for the wedding and then another full weekend off in just two weeks.”

“I don’t get ‘this weekend off’,” Thomas reminded him. “All I get is my regular Friday-Sunday. Bates is the one who gets extra time. I don’t even get to come in late Saturday, the rehearsal dinner is too early.”

“Oh quit your belly aching,” Mrs. Patmore sat herself down in the empty chair on the other side of Jimmy from Thomas and, by sheer dint of being a nosey busy body, smack dab in the middle of the conversation. “At least you get to go to the wedding. Some of us have to work because our help is going to be off playing flower girl.”

“Bride’s maid,” Thomas corrected her. He didn’t bother pointing out that she would still have Ivy and Alfred and if she’d really wanted to attend, she probably could have gone to Mrs. Hughes when Mr. Carson had said no.

“Whatever she is,” the cook dismissed his correction. “At least Mr. Carson will do double duty for you so you can go.”

Thomas would have pointed out that Mr. Carson was not doing double duty for him, but rather doing it for Bates which was not at all surprising because Bates was his favorite, but he was cut off as the topic of conversation walked into the staff room and took up position in the middle of the surrounding chairs. Mrs. Hughes followed right behind him. The staff fell immediately silent and gave the owners their full attention.

“Alright, everyone, attention please,” Mr. Carson said, despite the fact that all eyes were on him already. “We have several things to cover tonight. First, as you are all aware, Mr. Molesley and Miss Baxter will be wed on Sunday.”

There was a polite round of applause. Thomas couldn’t see from where he was seated, but he was certain both the bride and groom were blushing.

“Congratulations to you both,” Mr. Carson continued with a benevolent smile that bordered on condescending. “Of course, this means a bit of extra work for the rest of us over the weekend and the upcoming week. Therefore I expect everyone to be running on time, early if you can manage, and no sick days will be granted without a doctor’s note.”

That wasn’t new knowledge either. There had been a fair bit of mutinous mumbling among the younger staff members when that announcement had been pinned to the staff room door, most of it to the tune of how they were supposed to submit a doctor’s note if they were hit by a car. Given that no one in the history of the hotel had been hit by a car on their way to work, Thomas wasn’t overly worried about it.

“And now for the exciting announcement.” Mr. Carson’s smile deepened and his chest puffed with what could only be described as pride. It was something he tended to do, Thomas noted, when he was about to say something he thought was on par with the second coming of Christ and the rest of them put more on the level of a root canal. “Two weeks from now, just in time for our newly weds to come back, we will have the privilege of hosting an art exhibition of paintings by the Marquess of Hexham.”

There were several impressed gasps from around the room. Thomas was just as glad he wouldn’t be there. Hexham meant Lady Edith’s cousin which meant Lady Edith, half the staff of the Sketch, and an odd assortment of titled Crawleys. That in turn meant twice as much bowing, scraping, and serving drinks to stuffy aristocrats as usual, and that was on top of whatever other toffs happened to be staying that weekend. Even if Lady Sybil was there, it wouldn’t be worth it.

“This will, of course, be a momentous occasion and I will need all hands on deck, both to prepare and while the event is going on. No time off requests will be granted.”

A warning bell went off in the back of Thomas’s head and he raised his hand.

“We will be converting the - yes, Thomas?”

“Ah, yes, sorry to interrupt,” Thomas smiled as pleasantly as possible and tried to keep his voice mild. “I just wanted to be certain – I’ve already been granted the weekend off.”

“Have you purchased plane tickets somewhere?” Mr. Carson asked with a studied sweetness that left Thomas cold.

“Ah, no. I didn’t have actual plans yet-”

“Then there will be no difficulty in your rearranging your schedule to help with this.”

Thomas stared at him, jaw slightly agape. He couldn’t do that. There had to be a law or something that said once time off had been granted, it couldn’t be revoked at a moment’s notice. Of course, doing anything about it would involve a lawyer and he’d be sacked for opening a law suit and fixing that would take another lawyer, if it could be fixed at all. The hotel paid well enough, but he couldn’t afford lawyers. “That’s not bloody fair.”

“Excuse me?” Mr. Carson, who had started to shift his attention back to the room at large, turned a very stern look at Thomas. “I think you will find-”

Thomas never got to learn what he would find as Mrs. Hughes stepped in, cutting through her husband’s lecture with only a slightly raised voice. “We will arrange for you to have another weekend off, Thomas,” she assured him in the most eminently reasonable voice imaginable. “And it will not be moved again.” She said the last with a sharp look at Mr. Carson.

Mr. Carson didn’t look any more pleased about the situation than Thomas felt, but he apparently knew a losing battle when he saw one, because he offered no protest, simply a, “Indeed we will. And now, if we may proceed, we will be converting the dining room into the art gallery proper as the lighting is best there. Meanwhile the main conference room-”

Thomas tuned him out, not the least bit interested. They’d undoubtedly hear the game plan at least fifty more times in one way or another before the big day. Instead he sat and tried not to seethe. It was near impossible when he knew good and well that if it weren’t for Mrs. Hughes, he’d have let the maids make a spectacle of him for nothing.

There was a light touch on his sleeve. He glanced to his right and Jimmy gave him a sympathetic smile. He tried to smile back.

* * *

“Really, Charles, you can’t just go about cancelling people’s weekends off without discussing it with them first.” Elsie Hughes scolded her husband as soon as they were alone in their office. “Thomas is still a young man. You can’t expect him to live for this hotel.”

“He’ll be forty in a couple of years,” her husband replied, as if it were the most solidly logical argument since Plato.

“Oh, well, then, I guess that makes him an old relic!” Elsie rolled her eyes. “Really, you didn’t live for any service job when you were his age.”

Charles shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He had, in fact, been in service in his late thirties, but it had been not long before that he was acting, a career which had taken him no place and ended  badly. He had often grumbled that those who could make a living at it deserved their knighthoods. “Perhaps not,” he allowed, “But I knew an important opportunity when I saw one and could make a sacrifice when necessary.”

“That is all well and good, but it is not necessary to sacrifice Thomas’s weekend off.” Elsie sighed. She felt a headache coming on. “I worry about that boy. He spends too much time alone and has too few friends.”

“He could remedy all of that if he’d dedicate less time to being nasty.”

Elsie was having none of it. “Oh you think so, do you? Alright, how is this – when was the last time you heard him say he was taking time off to visit his family? Or even come in on Monday talking about the good time he’d had on his day off?” She paused and, receiving no answer, took it as confirmation of her point. “He needs to get out, Charles. He needs to meet people and socialize. He needs to fall in love-”

“I don’t want to think about that.”

“Don’t be such a homophobe!” she scolded. She loved her husband to death and would tell anyone who cared to listen, but if anyone ever told her he was a saint she was going to die laughing. “Really, what would you do if Ian McKellen came for the night? Or Elton John?”

“I’d make certain they had the best available rooms and then not think about what they might be doing in them,” Charles replied promptly. He then added, in a very pointed tone, “The same as I would do for any guest.”

Elsie pursed her lips and rolled her eyes. “Anyway, all I’m saying is that I wish there was a way to make him happier. That’s all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I'm resurrecting people. It's an AU. It's what they're for. Not resurrecting everyone, mind. Alex Green can stay dead. And not everyone who is resurrected will be making an appearance. But they will be out there.


	5. Second TIme Around

"You have the ring, don't you, John?" 

The question, asked for at least the tenth time in as many minutes, Thomas was certain, made him want to scream. Oddly enough, the answer hadn't changed.

"Yes, Joseph, I have the ring," Mr. Bates assured his friend as he worked at straightening his bow tie. "You've nothing to worry about."

Mr. Molesley did not look convinced. He'd not looked convinced all morning. From the colour of his face, you'd think he was planning on climbing bare handed down the cliffs of Dover without a safety rope, not getting married to the woman he'd been madly in love with since the moment they met. "I can't help it," he protested, straightening his own bow tie. Again. "I want this wedding to be perfect. She's perfect. She deserves a perfect wedding."

Unable to take anymore, Thomas fought to keep his tone light rather than biting and quipped, "Well then, you might concentrated on breathing. Going to put a bit of a damper on things if you faint into Bates's arms. After all, vapours are supposed to be the bride's job." Not, he thought, that there was any danger of Phyllis fainting. If she hadn't fainted from nerves the first go around she certainly wasn't going to do it today, and as part of the bridal party, he'd already gotten to see the dress. It wasn't that tight.

Rather than seeing the humor in the statement and realizing that he was being ridiculous, Molesley turned, if possible, even paler. "Oh God. Do you think that would happen?"

"If you don't breathe? Yes!" Thomas rolled his eyes. 

This, of course, was entirely too much for Bates. "Thomas," the older man glowered at him in the mirror, "If you can't be pleasant for a few hours, maybe you should go over to the bride's side and see about changing into your dress."

The blow hit home, right on the nerve it was aimed for. "Alright Freud," Thomas snapped, baring his teeth in a mockery of a smile and reaching into his pocket for his fags, "I'll leave the task of keeping the patient from hyperventilating to you. I advise doing a good job, 'cause I doubt you could catch him very well with only one free hand." With that, he turned and stalked from the room. The other three men in the room – an old school friend, a former colleague, and a cousin of some sort, all of whom seemed completely unwilling to join in the task of getting the groom to unwind – watched him leave with bewildered looks. Thomas heartily hoped they got indigestion at the reception.

There were people everywhere. Thomas had known that Mrs. Molesley-to-be had intended this to be a somewhat larger affair than the discreet, intimate second marriage of tradition, but it was still being conducted on a much smaller scale than her first wedding, and not only because she was paying for it without the benefit of her fiancee's embezzled funds. It was small enough to make the number of church staff, camera people, ushers, and the like running about behind the scenes utterly bewildering. By the time he made it outside and got a couple lungfuls of nicotine into him, Thomas was ready to murder something.

Closing his eyes, he leaned back against the building and tried to center himself. He honestly wished he had insisted on dressing over with the women. Alright, they all would have complained (and if Anna had been uncomfortable, Bates would have put his foot down, ironically), but he could have insisted on a private dressing room or something. Somewhere that he wouldn't have been forced to listen to Molsley whining and Bates mouthing the same platitudes aud nauseum, even though they weren't working. He was certain Phyllis was far from calm, but she wouldn't be panicking and Anna was undoubtedly doing a good enough job smoothing her feathers that he wouldn't have felt the need to stick his neck out and try something himself. 

Honestly, it would serve Bates right if Molesley did pass out in his arm. The only down side to the idea was that it really would ruin the day for Phyllis, and even at his pettiest he couldn't wish that. 

With his eyes closed, he had no warning that he was no longer alone until something small, but rather compact hit him in the middle, wrapping itself around his waist, and shrieked, "Mr. Barrow!" in the happiest voice he'd heard all day.

With a bit of an 'oof' he opened his eyes and looked down. "Why hello there, Miss Sybbie," he greeted the small girl gleefully trying to squeeze the life out of him.

"What are you doing here?"

"I'm here to see the wedding, silly!" she informed him, giving up her efforts at strangulation and stepping back. She wrinkled her nose. "Why are you smoking that stinky thing? They're bad and they smell bad!"

Crushing his fag out against the wall, even though he'd barely started it, he contrived to look chastised. "You're right, it's a filthy, horrid habit. Unfortunately I picked it up when I was young and now I can't kick it." He gave her a stern look. "Never let anyone talk you into trying it."

"I won't. They stink!"

Now that he was paying attention, Thomas was aware of someone approaching, so it was no surprise when a familiar voice chided, "That's not nice, Sybbie."

"But it's true," Thomas informed her, standing up for the little girl. "She was talking about these." He pulled the pack out of his pocket and held it up.

“Oh, those?" Sybil Branson gave him a playful smile as she walked up and collected her daughter's hand. "In which case, yes, they do stink, and they're terrible for you." She leaned over and gave him a kiss on the cheek which would have given Carson a heart attack. "You should quit."

"That's what I said!" Sybbie informed her.

"I believe I was the one who said that," Thomas reminded her, before turning her attention back to her mother. "Easier said than done, I'm afraid." He looked over her shoulder toward the parking lot. "Is Mr. Branson here?"

"Of course he is, he's just parking the car and he'll be along shortly." Fortunately for everyone, Tom Branson had left his position at Downton Court to become a political journalist before he became engaged to Lord Grantham's youngest daughter, otherwise Carson would have sacked him on the spot. Most of the staff were convinced he was more upset about the match than her father was, not that either of them could have stopped it. "What are you doing out here?" she asked, tilting her head back to meet Thomas's eyes. "Shouldn't you be getting ready? I'd heard you were part of the bridal party."

"Man of Honour," Thomas confirmed. "Things were getting a bit cramped inside, though. Needed a bit of space." He paused and then added, "Mr. Molesley is a bit nervous, and Mr. Bates is the best man. Thought it best to leave the groom to him."

Sybil gave him a knowing look. "I see. Nerves on everyone's part?"

"Not for lack of trying. Still, no one ever wants my help."

"That's not true," she chastised, sounding so much like Phyllis when she thought he was being silly he couldn't help wincing a bit. "Miss Baxter wants your help today, doesn't she?"

Thomas sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "She thinks she does at any rate. We'll see."

"I'm sure you'll do fine. Really, all you have to do is stand there and look handsome, and you've never had a problem doing that."

Thomas couldn't help chuckling at that one, even if he was well aware she was just flattering his vanity. Still, looking good was one of the few qualities he'd always been praised for, so he felt he could be forgiven for being a touch vain. "I suppose you have a point there, although perhaps you shouldn't let your husband hear you say that."

“Tom isn't going to feel threatened by you," Sybil gave him an arch look. "If nothing else, he knows I'm not your type."

"Mommy?" Sybbie interrupted, tugging on her mother's sleeve. "If I pick some of these flowers, can I be the flower girl?" She pointed to the daisies and dandelions at her feet. 

For a moment, both adults were at a loss for words. Then her mother gave her a soft smile and said, as gently as possible, "That's not quite how being a flower girl works, sweety."

"Why?" 

“Because Miss Baxter needs to choose the flower girl."

"Why?" the little girl was starting to go from confused to petulant.

"Because it's her wedding, sweety, and if you're going to have a wedding, you have to decide these things for yourself...before the wedding day."

In an attempt to cut off another round of questioning, and possibly tears, Thomas added, "Miss Baxter actually isn't having a flower girl."

Following the trend of the day, that seemed to be the exact wrong thing to say. "No flower girl?" Sybbie exclaimed, utterly aghast. If was the first time Thomas had ever seen a small girl utterly aghast that he could remember and he felt somewhat bad for wanting to laugh at the sight. "How can you have a wedding without a flower girl?"

"It's a rather small wedding," Thomas tried again. "There's not a ring bearer either."

The logic fell flat, cut down with a huff of childish scorn. "A ring bearer's just a boy."

"Sybbie," her mother scolded, "you really shouldn't pick on boys. Mr. Barrow is a boy. So is Daddy."

"Daddy and Mr. Barrow aren't boys!" 

“Are you talking back to your mother, Sybbie?" a stern voice called from several feet off, heralding the arrival of the last of the Branson family. 

"Daddy!" Sybbie turned and ran to her father. "Mommy says you and Mr. Barrow are boys and that you can have a wedding without a flower girl!"

Tom Branson, being somewhere in Thomas's general age bracket, was obviously caught somewhat off guard by being referred to as a boy. However, deciding that his wife must have had good reason for it, he deferred to her judgement, "True on all counts."

"But you and Mr. Barrow are men!" the girl continued to protest.

Catching a slightly better hold of the gist of the conversation, Mr. Branson hoisted his daughter into his arms and informed her, "Men are just boys grown up."  
"And some of us never really grow up," Thomas added, before he could think better of it. For the sake of appearance he tacked on, "Unfortunately."

That was, apparently, quite beyond six year old comprehension. "Boys that never grow up? You mean like Peter Pan?"

Thomas waffled his head back and forth a bit, trying to think of better phrasing. "It's more they grow up, but they keep acting like boys. Even though they really shouldn't." 

"Not that we know anyone like that," Tom gave Thomas a knowing look. 

It wasn't appreciated, but Thomas was no more in the mood to sit and bandy words with the former shuttle driver than he was the day manager. Rolling his eyes, he pushed away from the wall. "I should be heading in. They'll be shooing the wedding party together any minute now. It was lovely seeing you ladies again," Thomas smiled at Sybil and her daughter, not drawing attention to the fact her husband was not included in the sentiment.

"We'll see you at the reception," Sybil smiled at him, then gave him another kiss on the cheek. True to her earlier word, there was no protest from her husband.   
"What's a reception?" Sybbie asked.

"It's the part with the fancy cake," Thomas promised her with a grin. "I'll be sure to save you a really big slice."  And with that, he left the happy family with Sybbie gleefully squealing about cake directly into her father's ear.

He'd not gotten far inside the door when Anna descended on him. "There you are! Where have you been hiding? It's time to start lining up to go in. You nearly missed it."

"Yes, well, take it up with the person who left me needing a smoke," he protested as she grabbed his arm and hauled him, with surprising strength, toward the main door of the sanctuary. The rest of the wedding party was already gathered. Daisy was fussing to Gwen about her hair and Molesley was fidgeting up a storm and still looked faint, but beyond that everything seemed in order.

Anna took her place behind Gwen, hauling Thomas into his spot directly across from Mr. Bates. The best man gave him a hard look. "Good of you to join us."  
Ten biting comebacks clamored to the front of Thomas's brain, but he held his tongue. If anything went wrong with this wedding, no matter who started it, he was dead certain he was going to get blamed, and he was not going to be - he refused to be! - held responsible for ruining Phyllis's big day. He had enough things being held over his head at work, thank you. He told himself it was like grade school, where the teachers had insisted that if someone hit you, you shouldn't hit back because if they saw, you'd be the one to get in trouble. Of course, he'd never listened to them then, but that didn't mean he couldn't conduct himself like the bigger person now.

Even if no one would recognize that he was being the bigger person and all he really wanted was to kick Bates's walking stick out from under him.  
From beyond the closed door, piano music started. Plastering a smile on his face and turning to squarely face the wooden paneling, Thomas took a deep breath and told himself to forget Bates. Maturity aside, he'd realized at the rehearsal that he was on the far side from Bates's walking stick, so he wasn't going to be hit in the shins. All he had to do was walk down the aisle and, as Sybil had said, stand there looking handsome.   
He could do that.

The doors swung open. Like a line of cars starting from a dead stop at a light, the processional slowly started to move. Daisy and Mosley's cousin went first, then Gwen and the school friend, and finally Anna with the former colleague. Drawing a deep breath and promising himself a full smoke after this was all said and done, Thomas fell in step next to Bates. They could only pray that Molesley followed behind the way he was supposed to.

St. Michael and All Angels was not a large church, as far as such things went, but it was the sort of church that Thomas's parents had taken him to every Sunday, rain or shine, in all but the worst sickness and health, until he'd left home. He kept his eyes fixed on the alter, avoiding the priest standing to the side of it, and ruthlessly ignored the crawling sense that if Father Travis knew he was gay, he'd have had him banned. It was a ridiculous idea. Hell, in this day and age, the man probably performed same sex marriages. Just because Thomas still had to remind himself, years later, that it was legal now, that didn't mean the rest of the world did.  
And besides, Phyllis was the one getting married. Despite her sketchy past, which was more to do with poor taste in first husbands than anything, the clergy had no reason to object to her. He just needed to breathe. After the hard time he'd given Molesley on the subject, Bates really wouldn't ever let him hear the end of it if he turned out being the one to faint. 

As they reached the front of the sanctuary, Daisy and her escort parted ways, taking their places opposite each other on the first set of the dais stairs. The pairs continued, parting like a zipper, until Thomas and Bates stopped on the last stair, leaving Molesley to continue by himself up to the alter and turn to face the audience. 

So far so good, Thomas thought. They were all still standing at least, and the groom had even managed to stop looking like a prisoner facing execution. He now had a somewhat vacant look on his face as if he were dreaming the whole thing. Thomas wondered if one of the other groomsmen had finally slipped him something.  
Father Travis stepped around to stand next to the groom and his voice rang out, "All rise." The piano struck a melody, not to the worn out strains of Wagner's Bridal Chorus, but something light and cheerful that sounded faintly familiar, but that Thomas couldn't place. It was momentarily lost in the shuffling of bodies standing and turning toward the sanctuary door. 

The ushers pulled the door opened once more and Phyllis stepped through. Despite knowing it was her, despite having seen pictures of the dress with the rest of the bridal party, Thomas nearly did a double take to make certain it was, in fact, the right woman. Even though her face was plainly visible, the style of her hair made it look softer than usual. She'd forgone a veil in favor of delicate floral hair combs and a gauzy wrap around her shoulders. Thomas had thought the sleeveless, lace covered cream of the dress a bit plain, even for an unassuming bride, when he saw it in the magazine, but seeing it on her, trailing slightly behind her on the carpet, he was forced to firmly revise his opinion. 

It suited her. 

It suited her much more than the distant memories of a scalloped neckline, beads everywhere, and a train that had to be carried by some younger female relative, captured on film and shared online by his sister. The small cluster of lily of the valley and baby's breath in her hands suited her more than the hot house worth of lilies and roses. 

As she stepped up to Mr. Molesley (who had finally started to look happy for the first time that day, although he also might have stopped breathing completely) and smiled, Thomas stopped trying to draw comparisons with that long ago first wedding.  The bride and groom turned to face the alter. The congregation sat down. But all Thomas really saw was her smile.

Happiness, he thought, suited her.


	6. Let Them Eat Cake

Phyllis was exhausted, but at the same time, she couldn’t remember when she’d ever felt happier. She lost track of who had shaken her hand, congratulated her, wished her all the best in the future, and moved on to her husband.

Her husband. She may have stayed Baxter on paper, having decided after changing it to Coyle and back that it was entirely too much hassle to bother with again, but she was now Joseph’s wife. The thought brought her smile back up full force whenever it started to fade from weariness. 

A man she’d never met approached her, a girl of about six hoisted in her arms. “Tom Branson,” the man introduced himself and she immediately placed the name. “Pleased to meet – and congratulate – you.”

“Thank you,” she smiled. “Joseph has told me all about you. It’s a pleasure to finally meet.”

“Why didn’t you have a flower girl?” the girl, who she deduced was his daughter, asked before her father could reply.

“Sybbie,” both Mr. Branson and the woman just behind him, who had to be Lord Grantham’s youngest, Lady Sybil, scolded in unison. “Manners.”

Not quite willing to let anyone get in trouble on her account, Phyllis smiled at the little girl and employed a technique Thomas called ‘creative license’, but most other people called 'lying’. “A flower girl is supposed to throw rose petals down the aisle,” she explained, not entirely certain if it was true, but dimly remembering something like that from a movie she’d once seen. She hadn’t had a flower girl in her first wedding either. “And Father Travis is going to have another function in the church later, so I didn’t want to make a mess.”

The little girl frowned, but didn’t offer any argument other than a discontent, “Oh.”

“Come on, Sybbie, let’s say hello to Mr. Molsley and then we can go get something to eat.” Mr. Branson gave Phyllis a look that was both grateful and long suffering.

“Can we have the cake now?”

“The cake comes later.”

Sybil Branson stepped in front of her and shook her hand. “I’m dreadfully sorry about that.”

“Don’t be,” Phyllis smiled and shook her head. “She’s darling, and what little girl doesn’t want to be a flower girl?”

The other woman thought a moment, then replied, “Actually I can’t see my sister Mary wanting it. She’d probably have thought it menial. Mary is a bride-or-nothing sort.” She laughed a little at some private thought and took Phyllis’s hand. “Anyway, thank you so much for inviting us, and congratulations. I’m sure you’ll both be very happy.”

“Thank you.”

And the line wound on, mostly unfamiliar faces given that, outside of the wedding party and a couple of odd friends she’d made in recent years, the guests were all Joseph’s friends and family. He’d asked, at least a hundred times, if there wasn’t anyone she wanted to invite, but most of the friends she’d known before the divorce hadn’t wanted anything to do with a jail bird. Thomas’s sister had sent her a congratulatory email and regretted not being able to get the time off, which was probably for the best anyway. Another congratulatory friend had moved to America. She supposed it should have been sad, having so few people to invite, but she found she didn’t care. She remembered Daisy asking Anna at the bachlorette party if she regretted going to the registrar’s office rather than having a church ceremony and Anna replying that she’d rather have the right man than the right wedding.

Sneaking a sideways glance at Joseph, Phyllis couldn’t help thinking she’d gotten both. 

Once the last hand was shaken, Joseph held out his arm, the perfect, gallant gentleman, and led her over to the head table. They’d decided, after much debate, on having the food on the table itself rather than a buffet style, although it did cost a bit more. They’d also decided to forgo the speeches, although Phyllis half suspected that someone would find a way to slip one or two in. Mostly, though, she looked forward to an evening of polite conversation, good food, and some dancing. 

She was somewhat surprised to find that Thomas had taken his seat at the table already. The rest of the bride’s maids and groom’s men were still wandering around, admiring the cake and greeting familiar faces among the guests. There were the usual number of flashes going off and people being cajoled in for impromptu group photographs. Thomas, however, had acquired a glass of white wine and was simply watching, although he did stand when she came up next to him.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, careful that it didn’t sound like a reprimand. “I thought you would be out visiting, not waiting for dinner.” She took her seat, letting Joseph push the chair in so that it didn’t muss her dress. She had done quite a bit of fussing to him about how difficult it was to move in it, and she was flattered that he seemed to have listened. 

“What can I say, I’m hungry.” He replied with an easy smile and a lift of his glass. “Besides, outside of Mrs. Branson, there’s no one here I know that I don’t already see at work nearly every day.”

“I thought you might at least want to play with their little girl,” Phyllis teased, giving him a sideways smile and looking for Sybbie among the crowd. “You certainly talk about her enough.”

“Have you ever tried entertaining a six year old girl on an empty stomach?” he arched an eyebrow at her. “Or worse, one with an empty stomach?”

“Fair, I suppose,” she allowed.

“I’m really quite flattered the Bransons made it,“ Joseph said, waving over one of the caterers circling the crowd with glasses of wine. "She may not go by Lady Sybil anymore, but it’s an honour to have her.”

“I’ll remind you of that after Sybbie takes a handful out of the cake before it’s even cut,” Thomas replied, smirking into his glass.

That made Joseph pause. “Er, you don’t think she really will, do you?”

“I wouldn’t think so,” Phyllis replied, turning down a glass of wine when the caterer offered. “She’s precocious, but she seems like a well behaved little girl.”

“No little girl stays well behaved when she’s bored,” Thomas argued philosophically. “Nor any little boy either. Just you wait, she’ll get up to something, mark my words.”

“Well her parents still have her outnumbered, so hopefully it won’t be too bad,” Phyllis reasoned, trying to keep Joseph from getting up and going to guard the cake personally, which he was looking like he might do. “Your parents never did.”

“No, they didn’t have the good sense to stop at one, did they?” 

Phyllis frowned at him a little, reaching over to place a hand on his arm. At his mild, querying expression, she decided not to say anything. After all, perhaps he really had been referring to the difficulty of riding herd on four little ones at a time, rather than questioning his own existence. And if he really was depressed, he certainly didn’t want her to know, so pressing wasn’t a good idea. Still, there was an undertone to the observation she didn’t quite like.

“Mrs. Molesley? Mr. Molesley?” their photographer stepped up to the table, catching Phyllis’s attention. “I don’t suppose I could get a shot, could I?”

“What, now?” Joseph blinked, looking from his glass to his plate. “We’ve not eaten anything.”

The photographer gave him a highly amused look. “Do you really want a picture of the two of you with bits of lasagna all over your plate? Better to take one now while everything’s clean and pretty looking.”

“Good point, I suppose. Very well,” straightening his tie, Joseph took his glass. “Er, what should we do?”

“Just lean together, raise you glasses, and smile,” the woman replied, playing with one of her lenses. Then she looked at Phyllis and realized she didn’t have a glass. 

“Oh. Or, hm…”

“Here,” Thomas passed his still mostly full glass over. “It’s just for a picture, right?”

“Right,” the photographer beamed as Phyllis took the glass and, leaning into her husband, raised it. Thomas moved over another seat, getting himself well outside of the frame. “Wonderful, perfect. Hold that pose and…” there was a click and a flash of light. This was followed by the camera being turned at several angles, the lens adjusted, and three or four more flashes of light before the newlyweds were allowed to relax. “There. That’ll look wonderful in the wedding book.”

Thomas smirked and reclaimed his glass. “I hope you’re planning on having copies of that wedding book made. All of the bridesmaids are going to want one.”

“I suppose they will, won’t they?” Joseph sighed. “Ah well. Hopefully it won’t be too expensive.”

Phyllis watched the photographer taking at least a dozen pictures of the cake from various angles, including having one of the groomsmen steady her as she got up on a chair, and wondered. “I suspect that will depend on how big it winds up being. She’s taking an awful lot of pictures.”

The observation seemed to somewhat worry her husband. “I thought all wedding photographers took a lot of pictures? I mean, surely we’re not going to have all of those cake pictures in our book, are we? We only need one or two.”

“Didn’t you select the package that lets you decide what to use and what not?” Thomas asked, eyeing them sideways over the rim of his glass. Phyllis thought she detected a smirk to his tone.

“Yes,” she answered hastily. Really, the worst was over. It was time to relax and have fun, not work themselves into a nervous state over the wedding photos. Of course, it would help if Joseph could tell when Thomas was teasing. “Now that you mention it, I do remember doing that.” 

“Well the, you’ve nothing to worry about.”

The conversation wandered to how nicely the ceremony had gone, what was on the menu (Thomas was pleased to hear it was prime rib rather than lasagna), and the plans for their honeymoon. Phyllis was much more excited about seeing Paris with Joseph than she’d been about going to Monte Carlo with Peter. Hearing him talk about the Louvre and Notre Dame alone was enough to make her wish she was already there. 

Of course, there were other things she was looking forward to, as Thomas noted with a quietly wicked grin that confused her husband, but made her blush. Still, this time they weren’t the most exciting thing and she couldn’t help but think that was important.

Slowly the other members of the table took their places. It was about time for the food to be served when Mrs. Branson came past, looking somewhat worried. “Has anyone seen Sybbie?”

The question ran up and down the table with a resounding negative. “Have you tried by the cake?” Joseph asked. Clearly the emphasis that had been put on young girls and cake over the course of the evening had made an impression. 

“Don’t worry,” she gave him a knowing smile. “Tom has stationed himself by it just in case.” She sighed and looked around. “I’m certain she’s just playing somewhere, but I’d like to find her before the food comes out.”

“If not, I’m sure she’ll come out when she realizes everyone’s eating,” Anna assured her. 

“Oh, undoubtedly.” With another sigh, the young mother moved off to the next table.

“You know, I used to think I wanted children,” Joseph noted. “Now I’m starting to think I’m too old.”

“Nonsense,” Gwen laughed from Anna’s far side. “I know people who have had children at your age. You’d make wonderful parents.”

“Perhaps,” Phyllis allowed. “But if we do decide to go that route, I think I’d just as soon adopt.”

“Plenty of unwanted children in the world,” Thomas agreed. Again, there was that note to his voice that suggested it was more than a simple observation. “And you’ve both good steady jobs. I’m sure you’d make good parents.”

“Yes, well, it’s something to talk about, in the future,” Joseph allowed. “Although I’m all for getting through the honeymoon first.”

“True,” Thomas nodded sagely, his eyes fixed on a point just beyond his plate. “After all, depending on how things go, you might not need to adopt.”

“Thomas Barrow!” Anna swatted his arm. “That is hardly polite.”

“True though, isn’t it?” Thomas noted with a smirk. Before anyone could react, his entire body did an odd jerking motion and a squeal of laughter erupted from under the table. “Got you!” he proclaimed, with a vicious grin.

“What on earth?” Joseph stared at the table cloth as if it were possessed, then at Thomas as if he were possessed, and back.

Pushing his chair back a little and lifting the fall of white cloth, Thomas revealed the source of the laughter: Sybbie Branson, trapped neatly between his legs. Looking up, he waved at the little girl’s mother and called, “Sybil! I think this belongs to you!”

“No, no, let me go!” Sybbie protested, still laughing, trying to extract herself from his grip. Unfortunately for her years on his feet had given Thomas rather strong leg muscles, so the scissor trap held firm.

“Young lady, get out here,” her mother scolded when she reached the table. “It’s time for food.”

“I don’t want food – just cake!”

“Haven’t you heard? You can’t have cake if you don’t eat your dinner first,” Thomas informed her, reaching down and hauling her into his lap, clipping his head on the table as he did so. “Those are the rules of weddings.” 

Sybbie wasn’t having any of it. “You’re making that up!”

“No, he’s not,” Phyllis shook her head, fighting back a smile. The rest of the table was trying, and more or less failing, to keep a straight face. “That’s a very important rule at weddings. It’s so the delicious wedding food doesn’t go to waste.”

“And there’s going to be all sorts of good things to eat besides cake,” Joseph chimed in.

“Like what?”

“Come with Mummy and see,” her mother instructed, holding out her hand. Thomas released the little girl, only to have her vanish under the table again and come out the other side. She shot straight past the offered hand toward where her father was standing.

“I get to sit next to Daddy!“

Mrs. Branson shook her head. "How Mama and Papa put up with three of us, I’ll never know.” With a long suffering, apologetic smile, she turned and headed toward her seat.

“Mmm, I think we should definitely get through the honeymoon before we discuss children,” Phyllis gave Joseph a sideways, knowing grin. It wasn’t that she was opposed to the idea entirely, just that she wasn’t certain she was up to it any more than he was. “Maybe do some baby sitting before we make up our minds.”  
Once everyone was seated, Joseph stood up. “Good evening all,” he started, wearing the hesitant, humble smile that Phyllis loved so much. “Thank you all for joining us tonight for this very special occasion. I know you’re all hungry and we’d said no speeches, but I can’t let this moment pass without saying a few words.”

“Of course you can’t.“

"Thomas, shush.”

Whether he missed the quietly hissed conversation from the bride’s party or simply chose to ignore it, Joseph continued. “Growing up, I always assumed this day would come. Everyone was always talking about getting married and having a family and children. It seemed as inevitable as graduating school and getting a job. Just one of those things people did. I didn’t even know I was looking forward to it until suddenly I was five years out of school, employed, and still single. I hadn’t even really dated, being absorbed in my studies and all. By the time I was forty I’d decided that maybe it wasn’t going to happen. It was one of those things like getting a career with a bachelor’s in history.” A small, but well meaning chuckle went through the assembly. “I gave up, and that may sound pathetic and whiny, but it’s true, and in the end I’m glad I did.” He looked down at Phyllis and his smile grew. “Because this day wouldn’t mean half as much as it does if I were still young and taking it for granted. This love wouldn’t be half as true, I don’t think. And I’m not going to talk about how it’s going to last forever or anything like that, because that would be taking it for granted as well and Phyllis? If there is one thing I never want to do, it’s take you for granted. I want to be the man you deserve, and the man who deserves you, and that’s not just going to happen. It’s going to take a lot of effort, but I’m ready. I’m excited.” He looked back out over the room. “And I am so very, very glad that you are all here to be a part of that. Thank you.” He sat down to a round of applause, punctuated by an 'aw’ here and there.

Smiling so broadly it hurt and fighting back tears, Phyllis leaned over and kissed his cheek. He took her hand, squeezing it, and then they both wound up blinking as every camera in the room flashed at them. Clearing her throat softly she suggested, “Maybe we should have some food.”

“Er, yes, food. Food is a good idea.”


	7. Next in Line

"Alright, everyone! Mrs. Molesley is going to throw the bouquet now! Single women, please gather in the center of the room!"

Thomas quietly gave thanks that he wasn't a single woman and helped himself to a third slice of cake. Then he thought about it, picked up a second slice, and headed for where the Bransons were seated, only to find the women of the family notably absent. "Where's Sybbie?" he asked, setting one of the plates down on the table.  
"She wanted to do the bouquet toss," her father informed him, eyeing the frosted confection at the seat next to him. "And she doesn't need a second piece of cake."

"Of course she does," Thomas informed him primly. "Without that, she might get to sleep on time tonight. Can't have that."

"Given that it's a school day tomorrow, yes, we can." Glaring at him, Mr. Branson took the cake and started eating it himself.

Thomas watched him for a second, then shrugged. "Suit yourself. But I'm telling her you ate her piece." He turned back to his own seat and managed to get himself settled in just as Phyllis stood up, hand on her husband's shoulder, on one of the rickety folding chairs that his mother had always said you shouldn't stand on. "Shouldn't they do that from the stairs? Or a table at least?"

"The stairs aren't in a good position to see," Anna informed him, watching the proceedings as if the fate of the world were hanging in the balance. "And the tables are too tall. This will be fine as long as Mr. Molesley is there for her to steady herself on."

Still unconvinced, but deciding that it was the newlyweds' honeymoon on the line, not his, he turned most of his attention to his cake. It really was amazingly good cake. He'd have to find out where Phyllis had ordered it and get himself one for his next birthday or something, even if it did mean eating it all himself.  
"Alright everyone," Phyllis called, standing as straight as she could without toppling. "One, two, three!" 

The little bundle of lilies and baby's breath went sailing over her shoulder, into the small knot of waiting hands. Thomas had to admit he felt a pang of sympathy as it went straight past Sybbie's outstretched fingers, even with her mother holding her up so she'd stand a chance. Not that any of the grown women, who he had no doubt were superstitious enough to believe such things, wanted to wait for her to grow up to get married, he was sure, but her pout of disappointment was adorable. In the end it was Gwen who managed to snatch it up, just as it started its downward arc to the floor. 

He winced as Anna cried happily in his ear and the room erupted in applause. Great. He was probably going to hear about that for the rest of the year, or at least every time there was some good looking guest at the hotel who smiled in the red-head's general direction. If nothing else, so many flashes went off, you'd have thought the happy couple had kissed again.

"And now the men!" Mr. Molelsey announced, helping his wife down from her precarious perch.

Thomas responded by shoving another forkful of cake in his mouth, perfectly content to stay right where he was. He had better things to do with his time than make a fool of himself grabbing for a woman's underthings, even if a garter wasn't terribly intimate. He almost jabbed himself in the cheek when Anna shoved him in the shoulder. 

"Go on, then, Thomas. Your turn!"

He stared at the maid as if she'd gone mad. "Me? I'm not getting up there, don't be ridiculous. It's just a stuffy old joke anyway."

"Oh come on, you're a single man. You have to."

Gwen came gliding happily over and sat back down next to Anna, then looked at him. "Thomas, why are you still sitting? Go on up."

"I'll do nothing of the sort," he glared at them. "I'm going to sit right here and eat my cake."

"You're forgetting, ladies," Mr. Bates calmly reminded the women from Thomas's other side. He'd been able to ignore the other man while the Molesleys were seated between them, but their chairs were vacant now. "The only thing Mr. Barrow hates worse than having fun is doing things that would make other people happy."

Thomas brindled. It was starting to look almost worth joining the knot of desperate singles in the middle of the room just to get away from his coworkers. "I have no problem making other people happy, if they're people who matter. You three don't matter."

"And neither does Mrs. Molesley, apparently," Anna glared right back at him.

"She doesn't need me to make an idiot of myself to be happy."

As Phyllis put her foot up on the chair and started to pull her skirt up, to whistles and cat calls that Thomas found frankly embarrassing, Gwen stood up and called, "Wait a moment, you're missing one!"

"Oi, leave off, will you?" It hadn't been funny to start with. Now it really wasn't funny. Suddenly calls of 'come on' and 'what are you waiting for' were coming at him from perfect strangers. Forget his cake, he wanted the ground to open up and swallow him.

"Oh, that's right. Come on then, Mr. Barrow," Mr. Molesley called him, his tone cheerful and unconcerned, as if he didn't realize that Thomas was very unintentionally not coming. Then again, the unobservant idiot probably didn't. "The cake will be there when this is over."

"Come on, Thomas," Phyllis finally called in that damn, sympathetic tone of hers that said she knew he didn't like it, but she wanted him to do it anyway. It was the tone that always left him feeling guilty if he said no. "You don't have to try to catch it, I promise."

Betrayal, that's what it was. A sensation he was overly familiar with and didn't need to be feeling now. It wasn't helped when Sybbie's voice rang out "Come on, Mr. Barrow!" over the crowd. His face murderous, he stood and stalked out from behind the table, joining the other bachelors, and crossed his arms over his chest. He didn't have to try catching it? Fine. He'd just stand here and everyone could be happy with that.

A couple of the other men edged away from him.

Mr. Molesley seemed confused for a moment, whether by the fact he'd actually done as told or his obvious dislike of the proceedings was hard to tell, then said brightly. "Right then, here we go!" He slowly pulled the garter off, to more cat calls and whistles and how Phyllis could put up with it was anyone's guess, and turned his back to the waiting men. Thomas looked away, only to find himself looking at Bates staring directly at him, so he dropped his eyes to the shoes of the man in front of him. "One, two, three!"

He didn't bother watching. He was dimly aware of the men around him shuffling, jostling one another, and then something hit his chest and landed firmly on the shelf created by his crossed arms.

The camera flashes had all gone off before he'd managed to uncross his arms and jump backward, letting the garter fall to the ground. The room erupted in applause, but not enough to drown out the laughter and whistling. Thomas froze. He could feel the Bates's smirking at him, and probably Tom Branson too. He raised his eyes from the floor and found Molesley looking at him with that dopey smile and Phyllis, lower lip caught between her teeth, looking apologetic.

Fighting for air he stalked from the floor, grabbed his coat off it's hook, and headed out the door. Forget the cake, he didn't need this. He was going home. So what if they all spent the rest of the party talking about him? They'd be doing that anyway. He'd be hearing about it for a month at work, at least, both to his face and behind his back when they all thought he couldn't hear them. All he'd wanted was food, cake, and a couple of dances. Had that been too much to ask?

It wasn't until the cool night air hit him in the face that he remembered that he'd promised Phyllis a dance. Bad as things were, they'd be even worse if he skipped out on that. Daisy would tell Mrs. Patmore and then he'd never live it down. It would be 'you ruined the whole thing' until something came along to distract her, and then she'd attack him with it at random whenever she thought of it. 

It wasn't fair. How was he the one with the reputation for being nasty and holding things over people's heads when Bates got to walk on water, no matter what he did wrong, and everyone had an elephant's memory for his own mistakes? And this wasn't even a mistake, really, it was just him not wanting to stand up in front of God and everyone and make a fool of himself. So what if the rest were doing it?

Deciding that at the very least he could have a good, long smoke, he fished his lighter from his pocket, lit a fag, and took as deep a breath as he could manage. As the nicotine hit his system, he sat down and rested his head in the palm of one hand.

He hated them all so much. The Bates's and Gwen and the Molesleys....right then he thought he might even hate Sybbie, even though he knew she was just following along with the adults. She didn't understand. 

The click of dress shoes behind him made him groan. He hadn't even managed two drags yet. "Lord, can I at least have a smoke without you all coming out after me? I'll be right back in, I swear."

He was rather surprised when it was Sybil's voice that answered. "Take your time," she replied, coming to sit next to him on the step. He was surprised to realize that she had his plate in her hand. "Only Tom was threatening to eat your cake. I thought you might want that."

"Thanks." He tried smiling, but it didn't go very well. "Sorry for snapping."

"It's alright, I understand." She looked out into the darkness, folding her hands in her lap. "Mrs. Molesley's worried about you."

"Of course she is," Thomas sighed. "That's what I do, isn't it? Come to parties and ruin them for the good people of the world."

"Thomas..."

"If it weren't for me, she wouldn't be upset."

Sybil laid her hand on his arm. "If it weren't for everyone else, you won't be upset, and if you weren't upset, she wouldn't be. So there, it's not your fault."

"Thank you for that." 

"You're welcome," she smiled and squeezed his arm. "Are you going to be alright?"

He chuckled, although it was admittedly forced. "'Course I will. I've survived worse than this, after all. Just let me get through a couple of fags and I'll go back in. After all, I owe the bride a dance."

"Could I have one too? You've always been a good dancer."

"If you like," he shrugged. "And your husband will give you up for a song."

"I'm sure he will, as long as he gets the first," she laughed. "You know he's not one for all of this formality."

Thomas snorted smoke out his nose. "Yeah, and I'm sure no one will get the entire room chanting for him to dance every set either." Silence hung between them for a moment as he took another breath of smoke and she watched him with worried eyes. He knew she wanted him to talk, but he also knew she wouldn't press it. "Why can't I just have a good time?" he finally demanded, looking out at the moon rising over the horizon. "Why do I always have to do what someone else wants me to, so that they can have a good time? I swear, even when I was a kid and we'd go to the fair, I always had to go on the rides the little kids wanted to go on, because they weren't old enough to go alone and Mum and Dad didn't want to. And if I kicked up a fuss, I was being selfish and ruining it for them, and never mind that Margaret was older, or how bloody embarrassing it was to go on the little kids rides when I was ten and Mickey was five."

Sybil winced. "As the youngest, I can't say I ever had that problem. I remember Mary having it though, when we were younger. She didn't mind keeping an eye on me so much, I don't think, but Edith was only a year younger than she was, so she always kicked up a fuss." She shook her head. "Tonight, though, I think it's just that it's a wedding and that everyone wants weddings to be fun, but they also want them to be just so. There are expectations and everyone else is going to go along with them, and they don't see why anyone wouldn't." She reached up and smoothed a bit of his hair back in place where the wind had managed to work it loose. "And it's supposed to be the bride's day, so they're all on her side...or they try to be. I'm sure Mrs. Molesley wouldn't have cared if you hadn't done it. She was just trying compromise."

"I'm sure she was. She's like that, wants everyone to be happy even when it's not going to happen." Thomas sighed. It was ridiculous, feeling like Phyllis had betrayed him. It was Phyllis, after all. Still, he'd really like it if for once she'd just stand up for him when the rest ganged up on him, rather than trying not to ruffle feathers. The closest she ever came was telling people to leave him alone when she thought they were getting too snarky.

"At least she cares."

"True." Looking down at his cake, Thomas picked up his fork and worked a mouthful lose. It was harder on the steps than it had been at the table. "And the cake is amazing, so there's that."

Sybil laughed a little. "It is, isn't it? And I'm sure Mrs. Molesley would let you have left overs. We certainly aren't going to eat it all, even if you are trying to get Sybbie to stay up until midnight." She gave him a knowing look.

"Of course I am," he replied, all innocence. "Really, what reason is there to bring children to wedding receptions if not to get them hyped up on sugar and then send them home with their parents?"

"Oh, just you wait until you have children," she threatened. "I'll remember this."

"Science has a long way to go before that happens."

"You can adopt."

"I'm single, Sybil," he rolled his eyes. "What are the odds of a single guy getting to adopt a kid? Social services want you to be married, I'm sure."

"And any man you marry is going to want children," she countered. "And don't tell me you're going to die single. I know that's not what you want."  
He poked at his cake some more. "Yeah, well, I have a stellar track record of not getting what I want, so don't hold your breath."

She smiled at him and bumped him with her shoulder. "You'll find someone, eventually. And not because you caught the garter either. You'll find someone because under all of that armor, you're a wonderful, sweet, caring person. No one's life can go wrong all of the time, even if it feels like yours is trying."

"But see? I can't even mope when I want to!" he laughed, then gave her a smile. The temperature was dropping. "You should go in, it's getting cold out here. Let me finish my cake and a smoke or two and I'll be in for that dance. Promise."

"I'll hold you to that."

* * *

"Well, that was a long day," Anna sighed, turning the key in the ignition and sliding the car into reverse. "Fun, but long. I can cheerfully wait at least a year for another wedding."

"You'll have to bring that up with Gwen," her husband smirked from the passenger's seat. He hadn't said anything, but Anna could tell his knee was bothering him. Now he sat with the seat pushed all the way back, looking out the window as if he weren't paying any attention to her, but she knew better. If nothing else, he was watching her reflection in the glass.

"That won't be necessary. She's not seeing anyone at the moment." She felt a little bit selfish being relieved, and she supposed at assuming she'd be part of the bridal party (although given that Gwen was practically an adopted sister she'd be a bit insulted not to at least be asked), but she really was beat. "And while I know she'd like a boyfriend, preferably sooner rather than later, she's not going to rush things. She's not the sort."

"Then you should get a bit of time to recover." There was a pause, then John added, "Unless you'd like one for yourself."

Anna glanced at him confused. "Unless I'd like one what? A wedding?"

"A proper one, yes."

"John," she laughed, shaking her head. "I've already told you, I'm happy with what I've had. I'm happy with you. I don't need to put out a lot of money for a fancy dress and ceremony." She took one hand off the wheel long enough to reach out and touch his. "I'd rather save the money for when we have a family. The rest of it is nice, but it isn't worth the headache."

"Fair enough. Although I'm sure there would have been less headache if you'd been the Matron of Honour."

Anna grimaced. It wasn't that she'd had her heart set on the position or was jealous in any way. She didn't begrudge Mrs. Molesley her choice. She just wished there had been someone better suited than Thomas. "I can't believe him. Of all the days to be a disruptive nuisance. And nearly missing the processional? Pitching that fit about catching the garter? It's just a silly little tradition."

"But this is Thomas. He always has to be the special one, so put upon by everyone else." John shook his head. "Really, it would probably kill him to try and think of someone else for once. It's no wonder his relationships never work out. I can't imagine anyone putting up with that, man or woman."

"I wish someone would take him, though," Anna sighed. "Might do him good. Get him to loosen up a bit. At least give the rest of us a break."

"I wouldn't count on it."

"But he's better when he's in a relationship," she insisted. "Remember how it was before he kissed Jimmy at that party? Back when he thought he might have a chance? Alright, he still wasn't Prince Charming, but he was easier to deal with."

"Almost a pity he didn't get sacked over that whole thing." John shook his head. "Would have saved us all a lot of headache. Looking back on it, I still can't believe I stood up for him."

"Neither can I," Anna agreed, pointedly. "But on the other hand, the Molesleys might not even have met. After all, Thomas is the one who got Phyllis the job. Would you really trade Joseph's happiness just to be rid of him?"

"No. I would trade a lot of things, but not that." 

There was a decided pause and Anna glanced at her husband out of the corner of her eye. He was smiling at her. "What?"

"I wouldn't give up having my wife be the most beautiful woman at the wedding either."

"Second most beautiful!" Anna laughed. "I can't have been prettier than the bride, it's not allowed."

"Most beautiful," he insisted. "The rules give way for you."

"Stop it, you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to all of the introverts who would enjoy life more if the extroverts would just leave them alone and the extroverts would would enjoy life more if the introverts would stop being a bunch of wet blankets. 
> 
> Also, I do not have a set head canon for how many siblings Thomas has. I just kinda picked something that did what I needed.


	8. Chapter 8

_Two Weeks Later_

Thomas wasn't certain who it was who'd said "I may not know much about art, but I know what I like." It was probably George Bernard Shaw or Oscar Wild or someone like that. Maybe Winston Churchill. All he could really say, standing in the hotel's dining room-cum-art gallery, was that he truly appreciated the sentiment. Mr. Carson had been rattling on at length about the virtues of the Marquess of Hexham's work to anyone within ear shot for a week solid, his words laden with solemn respect. If the listening party was Mr. Molelsey, only three days back from his honeymoon, one was certain to hear lively, pedantic replies on depth of colour and experimental art forms. Admittedly, it made a bit of a break from hearing about Paris, but there was still only so much of Mr. Molesley being pedantic one could take.

(Mrs. Molesley was better. Ask her how things went and she would shyly tell you about how Mr. Molesley had surprised her with tickets to the opera and she hadn't understood a word of it. Then she'd smile, blush, and change the subject to the linens or some such.)

As far as Thomas was concerned, it looked like a paint store had thrown up on the room. With the exception of one or two pieces in black and white, each canvas was a riot of colour, some more harmonious than others. None of them contained what he would consider a 'picture' or even the semblance of one. Even definite 'shapes' were frequently lacking. There were, he thought, five year olds in the country who could do just as well. Then again, he supposed he'd seen calendars of five year old art here and there, along side art by cats and dogs, so someone with the money and title to attract attention shouldn't have too much trouble getting noticed.  
He walked over to stand behind Jimmy who was finishing hanging a plaque next to one canvas (the staff had not been trusted to hang the art, only the descriptions) and asked. "So do you have any idea what all of this is supposed to be then?"

"I haven't been reading these things," was the reply. "Just hanging them."

Thomas cocked an eyebrow at the bellboy's disgruntled tone, but didn't reprimand him. It was, after all, rather late and well past when Jimmy would normally be off having a drink and chatting up some girl or other. There was, however, a healthy dose of playful sarcasm in his voice as he replied, "Well then, what does that one say?"

Jimmy stepped back, looked at him, then at the canvas. As with many of the others, there was no discernible picture, as such, just huge swatches of colour blending into each other. Leaning in to better see the rather small print, Jimmy read. "An exploration of the effect of colour and harmony as a reflection of the human psyche and a path to tranquility."

Thomas blinked, not quite certain to believe he'd heard properly. He shook his head and asked, "Cor, what do you think all that means in English?" 

An amused and unfamiliar voice answered him. "It means I painted pretty colours on the canvas while listening to smooth jazz, and it was very relaxing."

Turning abruptly, Thomas found himself facing a man just a bit shorter than himself, although about the same age. He had brown hair that needed a trim, blue eyes, an open face, and was wearing what struck Thomas as a very soft, comfortable looking jumper. There was just enough family resemblance with Lady Edith's fiance that, combined with the commentary, there was no doubt that this was Peter Pelham, sixth Marquess of Hexham.

"Why didn't you just say that, then?" Jimmy asked.

It earned him a laugh. "My dear boy, art critics are going to read that! You can't just give an art critic plain language, the poor things would shrivel up and die!" 

Thomas and Jimmy both looked back and forth between the man and the painting, each exuding an air of utter confusion. Jimmy was the first to get up the guts to say something. "So, you're saying that all of the high toned language you read about with art is all pointless gibberish to make things sound posh?"

"Not all of it," Lord Hexham replied, walking over to stand next to them, his eyes on the painting. "There are definitely artists in all fields who paint to send messages and make statements on the world. Something that claims to be a commentary on the treatment of the working class by the Conservative Party, for instance, or the roll of women in Socialist society is likely exactly as billed. Similarly the photorealists who wind up in galleries rather than sketching people's portraits in malls have every right to talk about the years and difficulty of perfecting their craft and attention to detail. But process artists have a bit more difficulty getting taken seriously.

“Take my Study in the Style of Jackson Pollock, for example." He turned and gestured to another painting which looked very much to Thomas as if he'd simply thrown random colours of paint at a canvas. "As far as technique is concerned, all I did was splash paint at the canvas and see where it hit. Not much to talk about, really. A child could do it. But that type of abstract isn't really about technique so much as it is a study in chaos theory. What sorts of patterns will emerge? What sorts of emotions can you evoke? If you cover a ball in paint and throw it at the center of the canvas, will it hit there or someplace you hadn't intended and what sort of effect will that have?" He paused, then added with another of those wryly amused smiles, "Not to mention if you've just had a bad day it can be very cathartic."

Thomas looked around him with a bit more respect than he had earlier. "So basically, these were all experiments that came out the way you wanted them to?"

"More or less. I normally don't have any sort of end goal in mind for what I want things to look like, but I stop when I get something I like." Turning, the aristocrat held out his hand. "But we've not been properly introduced. I am Peter Pelham, Marquess of Hexham. And you are?"

"Thomas Barrow, night manager."

"A pleasure," Peter smiled at him, shook his hand, then turned his attention to Jimmy.

"James Kent," Jimmy replied in the formal manner Mr. Carson insisted on. "Bell boy." 

"Does everything meet with your approval, Your Lordship?" Thomas asked in the same, prim tone, stepping into his professional role.

"Oof, please, call me Peter when I'm not 'on duty'," Peter winced, looking around the room. "One does get tired of being 'sired' and 'Your Lordshipped' on every little occasion. Save the formality for when the show opens and the press is here." He concluded his turn of the room, then walked over to one painting that was hanging perfectly straight on the wall and pulled it off center so it hung slightly skee-jawed. "I prefer the way that one looks at a bit of an angle," he explained. "I expect people will forever be trying to straighten it, so if you could convince them not to I would appreciate it. Beyond that," he looked around again and nodded, "It's very nice. I approve." He gave them a smile from his seemingly endless supply. "Does this mean you can take a break now?"

"Well, it means James can clock off," Thomas allowed. Mr. Carson probably wouldn't have approved, but there was nothing left to be done here and the other man needed to sleep sometime. "I need to get back to my office. It's normally quiet this time of night, though, unless someone decides they want a midnight snack."

"Will you be here for the actual event?" The question was directed at both of them, but Thomas thought Peter looked a touch more in his direction. "I'd told Edith there needn't be a lot of fuss, but she made it sound like there would be anyway."

"If you have a title, Mr. Carson will make a fuss," Thomas assured him. "It will be all hands on deck, although you'll see James more than you will me. I'll stop past, but I'll be busy running things elsewhere."

Peter nodded. "In which case, I will see you two tomorrow. I hope you have a good night." Turning he walked to the door and picked up a large, rectangular package that Thomas immediately recognized as a painting.

His heart rate jumped. "Ah, Your Lor – er – Peter?" he called, causing the other man to pause and turn. He pointed to the package. "We've not forgotten one, have we?"

It took a moment for understanding to register with the other man, then he laughed. "Oh, no! This is just something Edith asked me to do as a present for her grandmother. It's considerably different than the works here." He gestured to the rest of the room "Would you like to see?"

The offer caught Thomas a bit off guard and he hesitated. Carson would probably not approve of their fraternizing with their betters, but as he couldn't imagine the Dowager Countess Grantham appreciating the Marquess's work, from what he'd seen of it, it was tempting to say yes. He glanced at Jimmy, who was obviously thinking something similar, and then yielded to temptation. "If it's not too much trouble."

"Not at all," Peter assured, setting the canvas down and carefully working at the tape with his fingers. "I wouldn't want you both to go through life thinking my entire skill set was throwing buckets of paint around. Here, could one of you hold this up for me while I get the tape at the bottom?"

Jimmy stepped forward and between the two of them they worked the brown wrapping paper off the work. The painting, as promised, was nothing like the surrounding experimental abstracts. This canvas had a very definite, if stylized, image and reminded Thomas of art you might see on a post card. In the center stood a young woman with red hair who looked familiar although he couldn't quite place her. She was dressed in a plain white dress, like something out of a Greek play, and a gold band wrapped around her head. A wave was breaking behind her and a series of moons in different phases went along the top. 

"I may not know art, but I know what I like," Jimmy whistled, eying the painting with obvious appreciation. Thomas bit back the playful urge to ask if he meant the painting or the woman.

"Thank you. Now," Peter grinned, watching them out of the tops of his eyes. "Do you recognize who it is?"

The easy answer was 'no', but Thomas hated admitting when he was wrong. He particularly hated it when someone more educated and titled than he was rubbing his face in it so they could look superior, so, despite the fact that Peter seemed a lot nicer than most of the aristocrats he knew – right up there with Sybil, really – he had a crack at it. "She reminds me of that picture of the naked woman on the sea shell. Goddess of Love, wasn't it?"

"Ah, the Birth of Venus, yes," Peter nodded, clearly pleased with the answer. "Not a direct influence on this work, but I can see where you'd draw the comparison. She's actually Thetis, a relatively minor sea goddess. I wouldn't expect anyone who hasn't done some heavy study of mythology to recognize her. But I was meaning more the woman herself, the model. Edith says you've all met her." He paused and, receiving absolutely baffled expressions for his pains, explained, "It's Lady Violet Crawley, in her younger days. I believe most of my references were from her forties, if you could believe it."

Thomas had a bit of trouble believing it, but there again the image was stylized. That might have made her look a bit younger, not to mention the Crawleys, from what he'd seen, were graceful agers.

Jimmy was caught up on a different detail. "The Dowager Countess was a red-head?"

Peter nodded, "Indeed! She wore it well, don't you think?" He started packaging up the painting again, pulling the paper over it and pressing down on the tape. This time both Thomas and Jimmy went to help him. "Edith wanted a painting of her Grandmother as a younger woman, done in the style of the Art Nouveau movement of the 1920s. Alphonse Mucha is the best known and most often mimicked artist of the movement, so I thought of copying someone less overdone, but then again from what I know of the Dowager, she's the sort to appreciate the iconic."

"You've described her quite well," Thomas agreed. He did not add that he found it second to 'bloody old bat'. "And it's an impressive painting."

"Aren't artists supposed to find their own style, though?" Jimmy asked. "Be original, do their own thing, all of that?"

"To an extent, but people have been painting for millennia. There's not really anything 'new' left and unless you live in a bubble someone, someplace is going to influence your way of doing things." Peter pressed down the last of the tape, then stood, picking the painting up again. "Not to mention in order to learn a technique, you have to study the technique and the fastest way to impress upon people that you've got it down is to mimic someone who already did it. Art critics love this – you listen tomorrow, particularly when they get to the Pollock inspired piece." He nodded to the canvas he threw paint at. "They will dither on forever about capturing the intent and tone of the original artist."

"Well, looks like I certainly have something to look forward to." Jimmy gave a forced smile that threw his enthusiasm into question.

"It's entertaining if you look at it as sort of a social comedy," Peter assured him, blue eyes twinkling. He definitely had the sort of eyes that twinkled. "Mocking the pomp and circumstance and all of that. But here, I am keeping you from a no doubt well deserved rest and Mr. Barrow from his office. I will bid you both a good night and let you get on with it." He smiled and nodded, accepted their respectful bows, then turned and left.

Once it was quite certain he was out of ear shot, Jimmy turned and looked around the room, muttering under his breath. "Well he's an odd duck, but I'll tell you, suddenly tomorrow looks a lot less boring."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to every art student who ever had to b.s. a posh sounding explanation for their colour field work in painting class for a presentation because 'it was relaxing and pretty' wouldn't cut it.


End file.
